The Ten-Year Mark

I was not in New York City in 2001, nor did I lose anyone close to me that day. But I remember the fear and suffering of millions of Americans as we watched, eyes glued to the TV set, the atrocities that were committed on September 11th.

Ten years later, that sort of pain that wrenched our stomachs still produces a dull thud as we remember the loved ones we lost and the blow that shook us to our core. The safety of our homes and workplaces was gone in an instant and replaced with something no American had ever felt before.

But Americans are nothing if not fighters. We fought to become Americans and we fight everyday to keep our freedom alive, whether it's as soldiers in the Middle East or civil rights advocates fighting for gay marriage. The thing that unites us all is our appreciation of freedom and our willingness to fight for it. So today, remember that.

While there are people out there who want to harm us, and may do so again in the future, they cannot take away that vital component of what it means to be an American. Every one of us has gotten back up and continued to fight, to move forward, to prove to the world that this is the greatest country to live in, and we will do it a hundred times again if we have to. And in the end, we'll prevail, just as we have here.

In memory of the ten-year anniversary attacks on the World Trade Center and the Pentagon. This has been my spiel.

Going Psycho

Little by little, I am starting to fall in love with this town.

I will be the first to admit, I wasn’t exactly keen on LA. Call me crazy, call me stupid, call me spoiled, but there it is. LA just wasn’t my bag- I had already been there, and it seemed less of a metropolis and more like 70 different suburbs in search of a city. I wanted New York, with its steel and concrete and subways and angry homeless people. And I still do. Though I’ve never lived there, I feel more homesick for that city than for Ohio, truth be told.

But I am also discovering more and greater things about this place. Not living in the valley helps immensely (no offense to those that do). Maybe a big part of it has to do with the weather. Since I have been here, New York has faced monsoons, unbearable heat, earthquakes (wtf?) and now a hurricane. So last night, while everybody was battening down their hatches with candles and beer and parts of the city were being evacuated, I braved the fierce streets of Los Angeles to visit the Hollywood Forever Cemetery to watch Alfred Hitchcock’s Psycho.

(http://www.cinespia.org/calendar/) is an organization that shows movies in the cemetery every week, randomly chosen. They project the films onto the wall of an old mausoleum and hundreds, if not thousands, of people show up to basically enjoy a nighttime picnic in a cemetery. Buy your tickets and get there early, stake out a good spot, and bring as much beer, snacks, and other organic (hint) substances as you can pack, and enjoy.

Most things in Los Angeles are more glamorous than their counterparts in other places (like Ohio) and the Hollywood forever Cemetery is no exception. Giant palm trees lit at the base send the message that despite being dead, the cemetery’s residents command red-carpet respect. What other tombstone-riddled park could you gaze upon the Hollywood sign in one direction and hop the fence to Paramount Studios in the other?

The weather settled to a very pleasant sixty-six degrees and the movie began. I feel like anyone could have enjoyed the evening, but being a long-time Hitchcock fan only made the experience better. As I sat amid the thousands of other film goers, watching Janet Leigh be slashed to bits in her shower and swatting a few hungry mosquitoes, I noticed the palm trees lining the park and saw one in particular that stood higher than the rest. Stick straight, in fact. Most palm trees have a little bend or sway to them, as if to say, “it’s all chill, man,” and I dig that. But this tree, which stood so tall and so straight, seemed to me like an enthusiastic child with his hand raised to answer the teacher’s questions. It said to me, “Hi! I’m here! You’re here! It’s a wonderful evening, isn’t it?” I like that tree very much. It’s a very happy tree.

And I feel that, finally, I am in a place where it is undeniably obvious that this is where I am supposed to be. I am excited to embark on this great adventure toward fame and fortune and very curious to see how far I get. I am thrilled to have found friends that love to go do cool things, and seek to include me on their adventures. It amazes me that I have only been out here two months and that there is still so much more to come. I imagine that life will not always be this easy, or this fun, but I welcome the challenges ahead and for once feel confident and capable in my ability to deal with the “real world.” I am, you might say, one very happy tree.

Paparazzi

Groupie. Fan girl. Stalker. I've never idolized any celebrity enough to be considered any of those things (Except for maybe Tina Fey). I just never liked the idea of feeding any celebrity's ego to gush over what they do or who they are. I sincerely think, in this business and this city, that it is vital to stay grounded.

That being said, I also don't mind approaching a favorite actor or actress and telling them I admire and respect their work. I think anyone whose job puts them directly in the spotlight is actually a little obligated to be gracious about meeting fans.

So when the cast and crew of one of my all-time favorite TV shows, Community, set up their catering service right outside our office door today, I carefully articulated my thoughts and said, quite eloquently,

"Gluuhhhhh."

This was my very first time meeting someone- anyone- really famous. I met Vanna White once at a hotel, but I was part of a two-hour line to get her autograph, I was around six, and I had no idea who she was. So when I worked up the balls to cross Lucy Park and thrust out my hand to Donald Glover and Joel McHale, it was a little petrifying. Donald was all of the above things I had previously mentioned a celebrity ought to be. Joel kind of hung back and, I could only imagine, silently prayed for us to leave him the f**k alone and let him get on with his lunch. But he too engaged us in conversation, which was very cool.

Then another intern who works with me, Aimee, who only knows Donald as Childish Gambino, looked straight at Joel and said, her smile wide, "Hi! I'm Aimee. What's your name?"

Joel just looked at her. And as our boss Chelsea would later point out, it is actually a little presumptuous to assume that you're famous enough for everyone to know your name (referring back to being a gracious celebrity). Nevertheless, everyone kind of froze for about 9/10 of a second to register this and McHale's next move. He did that half smile thing. waved his hand and said, "I'm Matthew Lillard. From Scream?"

"Oh! Hi, Matt! Aimee beamed as Tatiana, the other intern, looked at Joel with the focused stare she always wears on her face, even while star struck and said, point blank, "No you're not."

So Donald surrendered to some pictures and we chatted for a few minutes before leaving them alone.

Then the rest of the cast came back for dinner, and we were able to snag pictures of/with Gillian Jacobs, Ken Jeong, Alison Brie, and- my personal favorite- Martin Starr, or some of you may know him, Roman from Party Down. My favorite pic was with Ken Jeong, who literally introduced himself, even though he probably knows that we know who he is. "I'm Ken, I'm Ken," he said, taking my hand. "And your name? Emily! So nice to meet you!" Keep it up, Ken, and one day I'll hire you in one of my movies. :)

All in all, it was a pretty amazing experience, but if all goes well, this won't be the last time I meet someone famous. And not all of those famous people will be kind or gracious. But it's great to get these opportunities and see these things. In LA, people are almost as much sightseeing as any other landmark. It's an interesting balance between human and icon, and maybe one day I'll experience that first hand. Until then, I'll just work on my paparazzi pictures.

Surfer Girl

Didn't I just finish talking about what a walking LA cliche I am? Well, now we've upped the ante.

Having been raised on the ski slopes as a small child and spending the rest of my youth on the back of a horse, I feel confident in saying that I like extreme-type sports. And having grown up in the family pool and snorkeling in the Caribbean since I was six, I also feel confident in claiming myself as a competent swimmer.

But the number of times I have sunk my delicate Swiss feet into the gaping maw of the Pacific? Once before yesterday. So it's safe to say that I was grossly underestimating what awaited me. But when my friend Phil called me up to say he and his roommate Dan were surfing and they'd have a board for me at Venice, I thought, "Hey, why not?"And off I went on my jaunty little way.

So when I got there, we started off without the boards, just getting a little wet, swimming around, etc. Except the waves were so fierce, each minute in the water felt less like an afternoon splash and more like an animal instinct to survive. Let me be clear; I understand how waves work. I understand that as it churns over your head there's another part that sucks you back under. This motion is in itself terrifying to think about, like the ocean's natural defense against soft flabby little humans.
What's even more difficult for me to grasp is the natural rhythm in which these waves move. Every time a wave would break directly onto my head and the boys would yell out for me to duck under, I got too scared to let myself be sucked under the ocean and decided I would rather the wave knock me on my pristine, land-lubbing ass. They got a kick out of it but I would not go out farther than waist level and stood there, letting wave after wave slam against me. I thought to myself, This is not fun.

So after what seemed like eternity we came back to our towels and they grabbed their boards. I said, "I'm gonna take a break and watch you guys for a little bit." They walked off, shaking their heads at my cowardice, and I watched them vault themselves into the great abyss where their boards could crack open their skulls, where sharks lurked, where any number of things in the great big sea were lying in wait to murder them. No thanks.

But... you give me enough time to mull it over, and I generally work myself up to something. If I get it in my head that I'm going to do it, I'll do it. I mean, I live in LA. For a person to not have at least tried surfing once is just...well, it's sad. I figured if I tried it and hated it, I would never have to do it again, but I would also never forgive myself for letting fear keep me in my comfort zone. Ever since I've been out here I've done nothing but go out of my comfort zone, and it has worked out amazingly every single time.

So I screwed up my courage and picked up the last board. The guys noticed me coming out and came onshore to help get me started. I strapped on my leash and started walking into the water, which I believe I referred to at the time as "Motherf@!*ing cold!" Later Phil and Dan would say I turned purple in the water, but I really didn't notice anything until my toes went numb.

So I hopped on the board and found my balance, and instantly everything was better. I was no longer getting slammed by waves but riding them into the air, paddling with my arms on every downstroke. They turned me around a few times and tried to launch me off a wave, wherein I would get slammed by the force behind me, slip from my board, and be thrust into a swirling vortex that would momentarily suck me under. But I would come up for air smiling each time. What can I say? Every time you go out of your comfort zone, it just gets that much wider.

I did not make it to standing that day, try though I might. But I see it as a major first step in conquering the ocean-- or at least, my fear of it. The times where I was able to ride the waves was such a complete rush- I totally get now how surfers are addicted to their sport. And I want to be one of them. In due time, with a few lessons, and maybe one of those anti-shark electronic bracelets, I think surfing will be an excellent replacement for the slopes and the hooves. Plus, I'ma look so damn cool.

Viva Las Vegas!

It’s official- I have become a walking LA cliché (and yes, that rhymed). Last weekend I took a trip to Vegas with a few new friends and a large group of Ball State alumn/friends who were on a sort of Rumpspringer, if you will.

I’d like to stop here and backtrack a day. So last Thursday I volunteered to be an extra on a Hollywood film (not at liberty to say which one) set wherein I was to sit around a Jacuzzi in the background of a college-type party, drinking beer and chillin’. Oh, and the house was in Malibu. In short, I was one pair of shutter shades away from a rap music video. But I went, and had a blast. A few friends from work were there and we tapped out our drinking supplies, relaxing and having fun.
Then the (I want to say 2nd AD, but I’m not sure) pulled myself and my friend Chelsea aside for an opening shot in which the main characters run into us on our way into the house and step aside for us to enter. So like, screen time and stuff! When we thought we were finished and settled back in with our tricked out solo cups like the cool college students we were, he came back up to us and said for one of us to come with him to do a scene. Chelsea was like, “I’m too tall,” thus graciously stepping aside for me to do some on-screen flirting with one of the actors. Which I did, gratuitously. Like it was my job. Like I was up for a SAG award. It was a challenge, believe me, to stand around and be interested in cute guys. My Oscar’s coming soon.

Reverting back to my main story of adventure. Because of the events that transpired that evening (me leaving my phone at that “party”), I was completely off the grid for 48 hours. No technology save for my eyelash curler. So Vegas really felt like a mini-vacation- a cutting off from reality that only heightened the Adult-Disney theme they got going on there. Everywhere you turned there were bright colors and flashing lights, beckoning you like sirens to every type of sin imaginable, from gambling to sex to liquor and beyond.
It was awesome.

Because of the size of our party we were able to snag some ludicrous discounts- Splitting a hotel room in the Cosmo cost me about $30 a night. For a hotel room overlooking the Bellagio Fountain, I’d say it was a pretty good deal!
Arriving in late on Friday, we had a little drinking to do to to catch up to everyone else, and then proceeded to the gambling halls for a night of bad decisions and expensive beers. At some point I realized my feet were in agony from the high heels I’d chosen to wear and dragged my bleeding leg stumps back to our hotel sometime around dawn. For the record, they stayed on my feet the whole night; I refused to take them off. I mean, I knew what I was getting myself into. I had it coming the way I was dressed (that one’s for you, Mike).
Dragging my stupid butt out of bed the next morning took some real grit, along with the promise of a relaxing afternoon by the pool. Heh. Our pool was definitely not an elevator music, quiet outdoor retreat, but rather a giant chlorine mosh pit of hormones, alcohol, and party music. I left my relaxing afternoon at the poolside feeling sweaty and out of breath like I’d run ten miles. Okay, like I’d run three miles. Okay, like I’d run a half mile. Man, I’m out of shape.
For dinner we went to the most expensive buffet I can say that I’ve ever had, which incidentally turned out to be the best buffet I’d ever had, all apologies to Golden Corral. From sushi to crab legs to chicken marsala and ribs, I could have Liz Lemon’ed my way through that place for hours but unfortunately, we only had time for me to have two helpings that night plus dessert. It’s safe to say that I have developed a master plan of attack for next year, which may or may not include a purse lined with ziplock bags.
That night further involved ordering bottle service at the hotel bar completely decorated in crystal, followed by a limo ride, followed by some shameless but nevertheless enjoyable dancing at the club in Hard Rock Café, whose name escapes me at the moment. I would like to take this time to say that again I wore high heels out to party, but was not as noble in my attempt to keep them on my feet the rest of the night.
Sunday’s trip home included a stop in Baker, Nevada. You might know it as the “Gateway to Death Valley” (what a cheery little name that is), but it is also famed its Alien Beef Jerky, “The Best Jerky in the Universe.” It was delicious and the Area 51 paraphernalia was remarkable if a little ridiculous. The taste of Alien jerky has opened a floodgate in my mouth and ever since then I have been involved in a torrid affair with mister Jack Link and his premium cut meat (please tell me we’re picking up on the double entendre here). But we’re talking about a girl who counts frozen cookie dough as its own food group. Does this qualify me as a foodie? I damn well hope so!
In summation, regardless of the traffic both ways, Vegas was a fabulous weekend getaway that I get to do every once in a while because I live in LA. Though I still feel a very strong connection to and longing for New York City, I am absolutely loving my time here in LA and can’t wait to see what surprises pop up next!

Tim Burton at LACMA

If, ever, my love of Tim Burton and all things Burtonesque had faded in the slightest, it came back in raging waves as I wandered through the halls of the Los Angeles County Museum of Art on Saturday.

For an exhibit that opened over a month ago, crowds still overwhelm the hallways and presentation rooms, proof that traffic in LA is not limited to mere automobiles.

Although Burton has gained public fame and appreciation primarily as a film director, this exhibit publicizes his work as an artist- everything from cartoons to books and even school papers that he has written.

His animation, it seems to me, lies somewhere between Quentin Blake and the illustrator of Scary Stories to Tell in the Dark. Some of it made me laugh, some made me think, and some of his stuff is downright... disturbing. No wonder he and Disney didn't make a good fit.

In addition to the advertisement poster flying all over the city, I purchased a book written and illustrated by the great Mr. Burton. It's a short book; a book of poems like something Shell Silverstein would write. Only in Timmy's case, his work is entitled, "The Melancholy Death of Oyster Boy and Other Stories." One particular poem stands out to me:

The Boy with Nails in his Eyes
put up his aluminum tree.
It looked pretty strange
because he couldn't really see. (illustration on the side)

One of Burton's first short films, "Frankenweenie," was envisioned to be a feature length animation. Disney, his employer at the time, commissioned a twenty-seven minute live-action short, deemed unsuitable for children and never released in theaters. Burton has been revisiting this vision and "Frankenweenie" will be released sometime in October 2012. Based on the stop motion dolls at the exhibit, it looks to be another classic.

What struck me most about this exhibit, though, (aside from the seamless integration of art and film), were the early film pieces put on display. Excerpts and even whole screenings of Burton's work were available to the masses, and while they hinted at the potential being developed, a lot of them... well, sucked. To put it bluntly. One short film he did in college even featured an amateur, hesitating zoom in/out of a character's face at dinner.

I mention this not to pick at a beloved and talented director but to suggest that though we media students consider ourselves well versed in the area of video and film, we must not forget that we are, now and ever, students. Always learning, always making mistakes, but getting better. And to make amateur mistakes does not mean that we are incapable of great things. But we must also not forget our humility, in case one day an art museum decides to dedicate a wing to exposing our life's work for the public to scrutinize.

The exhibit will continue, fittingly, until Halloween, so if you're in LA before then, don't miss it.

Back in the Game

Greetings from the 405!

No, seriously, the traffic here is so bad I could troll facebook on my way to work, if only I got Wifi.

But actually I am sitting on a little balcony outside of a guest house in West Hollywood, enjoying the cool breezes and watching my Italian roommates (as in, from Italy) make dinner for the night of San Giovanni.

In some places in Italy, they celebrate the summer solstice with a tradition that is partly pagan and partly rooted in Christian tradition. They call it "La Notte de San Giovanni." Tonight, my roommates are making their own version of the holiday with a special meal that is considered good luck to eat outside. I watch them boil, smash and peel potatoes, knead dough, and grate blocks of cheese. My sauce from a can must seem pitiful to them, but I eat it outside!

In July I will start work with a small production company in Hollywood called Blumhouse Productions. Though I am only an intern, I am extremely excited to roll up my sleeves and see what the film industry is all about. This week I will be doing some freelance work for the trailer company I interned at last summer, Herzog and Co. It will be neat to get to see everyone again after a year.

I know it's a little emo and trite, but every time I look out my window and see the mountains I can't help but be reminded of that Jack's Mannequin song, "Holiday from Real." After a difficult year, full of trials, heartache, personal setbacks, and disappointments, it's really hard not to be grateful for where I am and what I am doing. I feel like I've taken a vacation from reality.

That's not to say my life is glamorous by any means. I live in a small room in the back of this old apartment, feasting on ramen and Chef Boyardee. My internship, though exciting, is 12hours a day AND unpaid, so I have to get another part-time job to offset some of the cost. And I may not even get anywhere. Finding a job post-graduation is sort of like solving a crime. There are leads, contacts, investigations... and in the end, you might not find what you are looking for. Everyone working in film wants the same thing, and the painful truth is that very few of them will actually get it.

This is without a doubt the scariest, and most exciting, time in my life. What a gamble I've taken! What risks! But I feel that it's times like these that define who we are and who we are going to be. Sink or swim, baby. It's like the (albeit somewhat juvenile) JM song goes, "being poor was never better." So stay tuned for what comes next! I sure as shit don't know.